Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage Page A

Avenida do Estado, was São Paulo’s oldest mosque and the one with the largest congregation. It was, therefore, the logical place for Danusa to initiate her inquires.
    She was just arriving for her appointment with Sheikh Ahmad, the worship leader, when Hector called her cell phone and filled her in on the conversation with Janus Prado.
    “With a name like that,” she said, “I think Janus is right about him being Lebanese. What’s the wife’s first name?” “Carlotta.”
“Carlotta? That doesn’t fit.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
“Is the husband a practicing Muslim?”
“No idea.”
“I’ll ask the Sheikh about him. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
The aged cleric, a hunger-thin man with a kindly face and sad eyes, received her in his office.
    “I must admit to a certain degree of curiosity about all this urgency,” he said. “I was to have spoken, this morning, at a school, and I hate to disappoint children.”
    He’d used the word curiosity . What he really meant was irritation , but he was too polite to say it.
“I’m sorry,” Danusa said, “but when you know the facts, I think you’ll agree that there was no time to lose. Tell me, what percentage of the city’s Muslims worship here at the Centro Islamico?”
“Fifty percent . . . or thereabouts.”
“So it follows that you probably know half the Muslims in São Paulo?”
“Probably. We’re not a very large community.”
“Are you, by any chance, acquainted with a couple by the name of Chehab?”
“I know two couples named Chehab. Why all these questions?”
“The people I’m referring to are Adnan and Carlotta.”
“Adnan and Carlotta? Yes, I know them.”
“Are you aware that Carlotta recently gave birth?”
“Yes. God blessed them with a little boy. They named him Fadi. Again, why all these questions?”
The murder of Carlotta would be in the morning papers. There was no need for secrecy. Danusa told him.
The Sheikh’s mouth opened in surprise, and his eyes became even sadder. “What kind of a monster would do something like that?”
“That’s a question for psychiatrists,” Danusa said. “Our job is to identify the monster. You’ve heard about the bombing in front of the American Consulate?”
“Yes. A terrible thing.”
“More terrible, even, than the newspapers are letting on.”
She told him about the baby.
“And that baby . . . was Fadi?”
“We don’t know that for certain, but it’s a distinct possibility.”
The Sheikh looked at his hands. He was quiet for a long moment.
“And Adnan?” he said, looking up again. “What of him?”
“He’s overwrought. He’s being treated at the Sírio-Libanês Hospital.”
The Sheikh began straightening the things on his desk. “I must go to him.”
Danusa shook her head. “He’s under heavy sedation, and he’s not being allowed any visits, even from the police.”
“Oh,” he said, becoming still. “Until when?”
“Sorry, I don’t know.”
“I shall call the hospital to check. And I shall pray for him. He’s a good man, who loved his wife and child very deeply. He will be heartbroken.”
“So you can’t see him using his baby for something like this?”
“Adnan Chehab? Never!” He accompanied his words with an emphatic shake of his head.
“No chance he could be involved with an extremist group?”
“Adnan’s positions against radicalism and violence are well-known. He is moderate in all things, extreme in none.” “You’re sure?”
The Sheikh’s nod was equally emphatic.
“Ask anyone in the congregation. If Adnan hates anyone, it’s the people who bring our religion into disrepute by misinterpreting the word of God. Further proof of his tolerance, if any is required, is that he married a Christian.”
“Carlotta is a Christian?”
The Sheikh waved a finger in denial. “Carlotta was a Christian. She converted to Islam.”
“At his behest?”
“Certainly not. Of her own free will. Because she wanted to.”
Danusa showed him one of the photos.